


Definitely Not Elvis

by Nny



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Bucky is not Elvis, Clint is Captain America, It's all very confusing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 05:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18959233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: "I'm not Steve Rogers," he said, easy as breathing. "I'm what those of us in professional circles like to call a 'decoy'."





	Definitely Not Elvis

The Soldier finally stopped on the outskirts of the city, industrial and garbage-strewn and - hopefully - some kinda safe. The car he'd stolen had been making unhappy noises for the last half an hour, different colours lighting up the dash like a firework show, so he didn't take any pains to bother hiding it; he wasn't gonna use it again. Leather glove on one hand, metal fingers on the other, no fingerprints he needed to clean - but the most likely scenario was that no one would even look. The most likely scenario was that scavengers'd have the roadkill torn apart and sold off before sundown.

He popped the trunk and hauled out his captive, who had apparently recovered just about enough to start wiggling. It made carrying him across to the closest mostly-intact building a pain in the ass, and he considered punching him again... but they were supposed to be friends. The guy had told him that they were friends. The Soldier honestly didn't know much about what exactly that meant, but he figured that friends weren't supposed to punch friends in the head.

Again.

The door shrieked a protest as he pushed it open. Inside what remained of the building, it smelled of an odd mixture of rust and green growth, the structural features - about the only things that hadn't been taken when the owners left - all covered over with leaves. He reached out gently and brushed the petals of a defiantly red flower halfway up a set of stairs, the metal under enough control again not to even leave a bruise.

When he turned back around his captive was staring up at him, sprawled back on his elbows, somehow positioned to suggest that he had chosen this, that he could stop being tied up any time that he wanted. There was something off about the proportions of him; the Soldier had studied all available footage even before getting up close and personal and doing his damnedest to kill the man.

"You're taller," he said, confused, and the guy shrugged his shoulders and cocked his head. It was no real surprise that when the Soldier pulled off the cloth he had gagged him with and demanded answers, they sure as hell weren't the ones he was wanting.

"Who am I?"

The man on the floor looked him up and down, even more casual now that the Soldier could see the insolent curve of his mouth.

"I dunno. I'm guessing 'not Elvis?'"

"You're not - you're wrong," the Soldier said, and with that realisation came a rush of relief - he had hopes that Hydra's programming was wearing off, sure, but there was a certain release of tension to be gained from the fact that this guy - whoever he was - was definitely not his Mission.

The man regarded him narrowly, blue eyes almost right but an incongruence of freckles scattered across his nose.

"You... _are_ Elvis? Hey, wait, is this Vegas? 'cos if it is I've got some concerns."

"You're not Steve Rogers," the Soldier said. He bent down, eased in careful, because the guy hadn't yet done anything to deserve the many and varied ways the Soldier could make him flinch. The cowl wasn't made of anything he recognised but it was flexible enough to pull off easy, to reveal mussed blond hair and a nose that was wrinkling in protest and entirely the wrong shape of a grin on his mouth.

He was a little older than the Steve Rogers the Soldier had seen on the bridge, but nowhere near as old as the both of them ought to be. He had an attractive face, even if it wasn't close to classically handsome, now with a nose that'd been broken that many times. He looked... kinda friendly. Open. Like he wasn't telling lies with every breath.

He looked different to everyone the Soldier knew.

"I'm not Steve Rogers," he said, easy as breathing. "I'm what those of us in professional circles like to call a 'decoy'."

"With me after him?" the Soldier sat back on his heels, oddly disgruntled at the foolishness of this man. "Then you are an idiot."

"Aw," the man said, "we're already so well acquainted! But, for the record?" he moved quickly, flinging a length of rope at the Soldier's face and startling him backwards, lunging forward to straddle the Soldier and hold discarded, broken metal against his throat. "I ain't so fragile as I look."

There were seven ways that the Soldier could have fought back, but at least five of them would have led to the man's death. He wasn't sure why that was suddenly unacceptable. Instead he relaxed back against the scarred concrete floor, looked up at the visible beams of light that fell through the broken ceiling, dust dancing through them.

It wouldn't be such a bad place to die.

After a moment or two the guy backed off, sitting back on the Soldier's belly - he was heavy, even for his height, packed solid with muscle that strained even against a suit designed for Captain America.

"Steve told me he didn't think you'd hurt me." His voice was considering. Maybe even, if you listened right, holding just the edge of something like an apology. "I'm not gonna apologise for - " he raised the piece of twisted metal, making a rueful face at it and then tossing it away. "You shot Tasha, you deserve a little discomfort."

"I deserve worse than that." The Soldier's voice was scratchy and low. He'd never had much cause to speak in his work for Hydra. He hadn't decide whether it was worth re-learning how.

"Oh great. Just what we need. Another aging drama queen." The guy scrubbed a hand through his hair, although to what purpose the Soldier couldn't be sure - he looked just as dishevelled after. ( _j_ _ust_ , said a treacherous little voice in the back of his mind, _as good_.) "So what's the plan here?"

Startled, the Soldier sat up a little, bringing them into closer contact. The man shifted his weight, awkward and - and confusing. Pleasant in ways he didn't quite understand.

"Isn't that your decision?"

"Man, if you knew me you definitely wouldn't be leaving that in my hands." He shifted his weight to stay on top of the Soldier, fluid movement, somehow graceful in a way he hadn't been, when fighting earlier. Hadn't been when he'd had the time to think. "The way I see it, we've got three options. A, we punch it out, which will probably end badly for both of us but also, significantly, me. Mostly me. 2, I let you go, tell Steve you're a badass and kinda hope like hell you don't kill me on your way out the door." He made a considering face. "That one's possibly even more of my least favourite than the first one, 'cos internal bleeding honestly doesn't have much on Steven Grant Rogers' puppy dog eyes."

"Are you insane?"

"Almost certainly." He flashed the Soldier a mischievous sort of smile, one that was disconcerting, that close to his face. The Soldier licked his lips, and for a moment the man's eyes dropped.

"The third option?"

"Yeah, I don't think you're gonna be awful keen on this one, but I honestly think it'll be the best choice." He pushed himself up to his knees, leaned forward to put a hand on the Soldier's shoulder as he swung his leg over to kneel beside him instead; he didn't need it for the balance, there was no question of that. "The third option is me taking you back to the Avengers base with me. Letting you slug - or, for preference, _t_ _alk_ \- it out with Steve. Maybe getting to know you a little better, which frankly has a lot of appeal."

"I don't understand."

"Nah, you're right." The Captain's - Steve's - smile had been uncomfortable in its familiarity; this guy's smile was somehow comfortable in the lack. No one had looked at the Soldier like that in the better part of a century, and he found himself wanting to do whatever would make it continue. "You're right, there's a fourth option, if this is actually Vegas. I mean, we don't know each other so well, but my last marriage started out much the same way."

"You're crazy," he said flatly, and the smile got - if possible - even better.

"Nah, I'm Clint. But, y'know what, good effort, 'cos you ain't far off."

The Soldier sat up a little and Clint moved away to allow him the room. The lack of wariness in his movements now felt almost like an impossibility. Like the impossibility of a new start.

"I, er," he said. "Can I put in a vote for option 3?"

"You can put anything anywhere you like," Clint said, and the Soldier tried out a smile.

"As the actress said to the Bishop," he said, and that - that wasn't the Soldier at all. "Call me Bucky," he said.


End file.
